


Ghostly Woes

by Parthenopaon



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Attempt at Humor, F/F, Lemon Gone Wrong, Vampire Widowmaker, enchanted armor pharah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-08-04 21:43:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16354826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Parthenopaon/pseuds/Parthenopaon
Summary: In which Amélie and Fareeha try to figure out how to overcome Fareeha's ghostly limitations in the bedroom.





	Ghostly Woes

**Author's Note:**

> Pharah's Enchanted Armor looks badass, but I bet there are at least some limits to what a ghostly blob attached to armor can do.  
> The sight of her pulling off her helmet and having no head made me laugh, and this little fic was soon born.

   

    “Well, this is awkward.”

    A myriad of expressions flitted across Amélie's face, from bewilderment, puzzling confusion to mild discomfort and a growing sense of what-in-the-name-of-aunt-Melanie's-favorite-toe-am-I-doing-here. 

    While Fareeha's body stumbled and crashed into the nearby wall, Amélie cradled her lover's armored head in her hands, still confused by how it had gotten there in the first place. A bluish-green vapor poured out of the slits in the visor and from the bottom of the helm, its ethereal touch cold enough to give even Amélie's vampiric flesh the chills. 

    When she'd tugged Fareeha's head down for what was supposed to be a kiss, she'd never anticipated ending up with the thing in her hands.

    “So, uh…”

    “ _ Oui _ ,” Amélie confirmed. “This went much better in my head.”

    A ghoulish, girlish giggle escaped from the helm. “How do you think it's going in mine? Can you like, hold me a bit different? I want to see what my body's up to. Sounds like its having quite the adventure without me.”

    Amélie's eyes flicked over to where the enchanted armor flailed about and knocked over a solid oak dresser. The deafening crash obviously startled it, and it tripped over its feet and went down with a clatter Amélie was certain would be audible for miles on end.

    “I'm not certain you should see this. It's not very dignified.”

    Fareeha's snort sounded just as odd as the rest of her discombobulated speech. “Oh, please. I once spent three weeks running from my own pants with my ass out to the world. How much worse can this be?”

    “Suit yourself,” Amélie said as she carefully turned Fareeha's visor to the Eastern wall. 

    The armor, as if sensing the scrutiny of its missing part, twisted its arms into a parody of legs, lifted up on all fours, and scrambled towards Amélie with the speed of a striking cobra. Both she and Fareeha shrieked. By the time the thing crashed into the iron reinforced oak frame of the bed, Amélie clung to the ceiling, her fangs bared in annoyance. 

    “Hey,” Fareeha complained, “I can't see anything. What's it doing?”

    Amélie hissed as it pulled itself over the frame and onto the bed. It twitched and scrambled about like a chicken with its head cut off. The sharp claws of its gauntlets and steel toes of its greaves rent through the velvet and silk sheets like a hot knife through melting butter, its panic seeming to grow as the rent fabric twisted about its limbs. 

    “Can you stop it before it destroys my bed? The thing is older than all of the United States combined!”

    “No I can't, genius,” Fareeha groused, “because I can't even feel it let alone control it.”

    “Perhaps we should reunite you with the rest of your body. I don't fancy making love in the tatters of my bed.”

    Amélie could practically hear the pout in Fareeha's voice when she said, “But it's been two weeks! A woman has needs, you know?”

    “I'm sure a woman does, but a woman also needs a body to satisfy said needs and said body is currently interred in the care of a witch holding a grudge the size of Jupiter.” 

    “Oh, come on,” Fareeha grumbled, and Amélie watched in growing horror as the enchanted armor, its ghastly vapor intensifying in color, rammed itself into the headboard. The armor and bed went crashing through the stone wall. With the rocky wail of comets smashing through the Earth's crust, a hole big enough for Reinhardt to easily charge through formed in the blink of an eye. Moonlight filtered serenely through the greyish cloud of dust floating about, while the sound of snapping wood and metal striking stone echoed from far below.

    “Uh, what just happened?”

    Amélie couldn't quite believe her eyes. “I believe,  _ ma chérie _ , you've just destroyed our bed in the most unanticipated manner possible.”

     Fareeha cursed up a storm in Arabic.

    By the time Amélie united Fareeha with her armor, her fury had mostly subsided, aided in part by the armor's slouched pauldrons and nervous fingers when she'd berated it and threatened to lock it in the cellar if it could not behave without its head. It was strange enough to have her lover clanking about without a flesh and blood body, but truly did an enchanted armor's ability to feel shame take the cake and cherry too. 

    “Alright,” Fareeha said, making finger guns at Amélie. “Time for take two.”

    Amélie pursed her lips and crossed her arms, but waited patiently for Fareeha to come up with another plan.

    “How about I come to you instead?” 

    “Come to me?” Amélie asked, frowning in confusion. “Come to me how?”

    “You know, like…” Fareeha scratched at her visor, fidgeting about like she'd been found guilty of some dastardly deed. “Have you ever, y'know,” she said, motioning between them, “done the deed with…” She motioned even faster, a curiously pink mist seeping from her helmet. 

    “Done the deed with what? An enchanted armor?” Amélie's face twisted in revulsion. “What do you take me for?! I'm a vampire,” she growled, “not a godsbedamned golem!”

    Fareeha held out her hands in a manner meant to placate. “I mean, you've been around, right? Think of it as—”

    “I am going to gut you,” Amélie snarled, “or at least find the ghostly equivalent if you finish that sentence with  _ an adventure _ .”

    Fareeha was wise enough not to so much as twitch.

    Amélie pointed a finger in an authoritative manner, her tone brooking no argument. “If you simply cannot wait for Ana to woo your body back from Angela, the least you can do is take off the armor.  _ All of it _ .”

    Fareeha threw up her hands. “ _ Fine _ .”

    Amélie blinked at least half a dozen times before she realized the indistinctly shaped mist floating above the hastily discarded bits and pieces of armor was Fareeha's soul. 

    “I…”

    “What?” Fareeha asked, sounding more curious than confrontational. “Too weird? I mean, I can't see or feel my legs, not really, but it's not that bad. Is it?” She sounded vaguely insecure, her voice airy and far away now that she wasn't speaking from the confines of a steel helmet. 

    Amélie honestly had no idea what to say. It was true. In her nearly eight hundred years of undeath she’d done the deed with more than a fair share of oddities, but she'd never even considered what it would be like to have sex with a misty shaped soul, let alone one that had neither limbs nor face. Truth be told, she'd had ghosts with a more solid sense of self than Fareeha. 

    “You are certainly...” Amélie squinted to find the right word. “ _ Unique _ in your being.”

    “Yeah, that might have sounded slightly better if you'd said it with a face that read ‘sultry’ instead of ‘vaguely constipated’.” 

    Amélie flushed. “You can't blame me. This is highly unusual. How am I to know your wants and needs if I can't even read you? Talk alone is not enough.”

    The ethereal mist undulated. In annoyance? Anticipation? Because of the gentle breeze flowing through the open windows? Even Death himself might have had a difficult time puzzling that out, and he was infamous for his ability to read everything from the path a fish had taken in a stream to a golem's true feelings from its utterly impassive stature. 

    “Can we at least try to see how this goes?”

    “And what will you do?” Amélie asked, gesturing to herself. “Hover over me and hope for the best?”

    “ _ No _ ,” Fareeha growled. “If I can hold up the armor, I should be able to touch other things. Right?”

    Amélie sighed in exasperation. “I guess?”

    A few minutes in and Amélie knew this was the most embarrassing courtship she'd ever taken part in, including the time she'd leaned on a stained glass window to appear suave to the White Widow and went crashing through it and three hundred feet into the chasm below. 

    Fareeha was trying _ something _ she knew, but whatever comprised her being had a terribly cold and quite uncomfortable aura. Her cheeks were flushed, not from arousal, but from plain and simple embarrassment. It was truly a cold day in Hell when she couldn't muster up enough excitement to have sex with her girlfriend. 

    “How's this?” Fareeha asked, and Amélie thought she felt a brush across her thighs. It could well have been her imagination, however, or the breeze. “Well?” Fareeha prompted. “I could use some feedback here.”

    “Perhaps a little to the left,” she said, racking her brain to figure out how to get out of this mess without poking Fareeha's fragile sense of self overmuch.

    “If I go anymore to the left,” Fareeha muttered, “I'll end up somewhere in the frozen wastes of Siberia.”

    Truth be told, Amélie's thighs and sundry parts certainly felt as frozen as the wilds of Siberia. 

    “Come closer then.”

    “I’m quite literally staring at the backs of your eyeballs right now, so I don't think that's such a great idea.”

    Amélie rolled off the couch and hit the carpet with a muffled thud, all pretense of enjoyment forgotten. “Enough. I have tried, truly I have, but we are, at the moment, decidedly incompatible. If you truly cannot wait, then we should retrieve your body now and damn the consequences. Who's going to miss the Witch of the Wilds? We'll bury her so deep in the earth even Death himself won't find her.”

    “That's a great idea,” Fareeha said. “And when Moira, Jack, and Lena come looking for her, we'll tell them she took a vacation to the Antarctic.”

    Amélie snapped her fingers. “That is a fantastic idea,  _ mon coeur _ . Why has no one else thought of  this?”

    She was fairly certain it should have been impossible for mist, no matter how magical, to scowl. 

    “Look, I'm not happy about this either, but I'm not going to kill Angela over a harmless prank.”

    “ _ Harmless?! _ ” Amélie couldn't quite believe her ears. “How is this in any way, shape or form,” she said, motioning to Fareeha's undulating shape, “harmless? Genocides have been committed for reasons more trivial than this.”

    “Thankfully,” Fareeha muttered, “we've left the age of slaughtering people for trivialities long behind.” She floated to the discarded armor, and before Amélie's very eyes assembled until she once more stood as towering and adamant as a newly built bulwark. Angela had certainly not left her incapable of defending herself. 

    Amélie licked her lips. She had to admit, Fareeha looked rather handsome in the armor. Or she would have, had she a body for Amélie to ravage. 

    Fareeha crossed her arms. “You know, for someone who insisted we were 'decidedly incompatible’, you're looking rather lusty right now.”

    Amélie huffed. “I admit, I like the look of you, but the feel?” She shuddered. “I haven't been cold since I rose from the grave, and at the moment,  _ ma chérie _ , it might be some time before my nether regions regain their feeling.”

    The mist floating through Fareeha's helm turned as red as the setting sun. 

    It was endearing to watch her blush and hear the gentle clanks as she fidgeted with her gauntlets. Amélie couldn't help but tease. “Think of it this way,  _ ma chérie _ .” She sidled close, running her fingers down the ornate visor and through the mist where Fareeha's throat would have been. “When Angela returns your body, instead of killing her, I'll thank her instead and laugh at the expression on her face. And when we return home,” her voice turned sultry enough to leave Fareeha shivering, “why, then we'll…”

    Amélie spared her the details. The last thing she needed now was for Fareeha to ruin her Damascus carpets by melting into them. 


End file.
